Oh Jesus Christ and fuck!
She shrank, pressing her back into the wall once more. Shocked, she could feel wetness between her legs. It’s just fear, not lust; it can’t be. . . .
“And you are English,” he said, changing to that language without warning.
“Scottish,” she returned mechanically. What the hell does that matter?
He inclined his head, clearly humoring her. His body touched hers at breast and hips, hardening her nipples into aching peaks. Perhaps he felt them, for he said, “Do you know how long it has been since I have had a meal or a woman?”
Her stomach seemed to melt into her womb. Sweat had broken out on her palms and was trickling down between her breasts. But somehow she managed to do the math. “Three hundred and twelve years?”
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Don’t ask me. After the first couple of centuries, those decades just fly by.” He lifted his hand from her neck, tracing one tapered fingertip along her lower lip. She was afraid to move.
“Do they really?” she managed.
“No. But they let me work up some heady appetites.”
“For what?” She sounded more suspicious than terrified. Was that good? Perhaps. The almost smile reappeared and vanished as his face leaned nearer hers.
“For dinner,” he answered. “And dalliance.”
His finger slid to the corner of her lips, pushing gently until she gasped, and when her mouth opened, he took it with his.
Heat consumed her, drowning her in some strange, welcome weakness. His cool lips moved across hers, sampling, parting them. He should have tasted of dust and death and corruption. At the very least he hadn’t brushed his teeth in 312 years; yet what she inhaled in panic was something overwhelmingly seductive, an earthy sweetness, powerful and masculine, and, God help her, she wanted it. She wanted to give herself to his mouth, feel his kiss deepen and dominate while he pressed that large, hard body closer into her. She wanted to push herself against the hardness nudging her abdomen. She wanted it between her legs, pushing into her, because she’d never known a kiss as arousing as this, and the sex would be so . . .
Oh God!
Shuddering, she forced herself to be still, praying she’d given away none of her depravity. His lips released hers, and she glared into his shadowed face, summoning anger to hide the unexpected emotions that frightened her almost more than he did. But although she shoved his shoulder hard in an effort to barge past, he remained immovable in her path.
“You taste good enough to eat,” he said hoarsely. His hand swept down from her cheek to her throat and breast, where it lingered, spreading a fire she couldn’t control. Fresh moisture pooled in her panties. Again she had to fight not to lean into that hand—it seemed determined to tease rather than deliver. But he must have felt her pebbled nipple poking through her top, for his gaze followed his hand while his thumb traced a circle around her areola. “And beneath these very odd clothes, your luscious little body cries out to be fucked. You can take care of both my immediate needs.”
She closed her eyes, as if that could remove the temptation as well as the terror. In a strange, strangled voice, she said, “What’s wrong with the clothes?” If nothing else, it should distract him. She had to think about getting away from him, not about getting into his pants.
His hand brushed the curve of her hip. “Workman’s trousers,” he said with contempt, sweeping the caress upward until his hand lay just under her breast. “And a whore’s bodice. Are you a whore, Elizabeth Silk from Scotland?”
“No!”
“Yet my coarse language doesn’t offend you. You are an intriguing mix. And since you have awakened me, would you like me to awaken you?”
She pushed past him, hoping to fool him by the act of an offended woman—which, in fact, wasn’t all act for some reason she hadn’t quite grasped.
He let her go three steps, four. Her heart thumping, she worked out that if she got two more paces in, she could leap for the boulder, spring off it, and grasp the side of the hole to haul herself up into the open. He could follow, of course, but if she made it to the car . . .
One more step. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. He had such bloody scary eyes—powerful, alien, opaque, and yet so deep you could drown in them. And hungry . . . Don’t think about them, don’t even imagine what he could do. . . .
Another step. She drew in her breath—and suddenly he was there in front of her. She cried out but had no time to run, for he took hold of her hips and drew her hard against him. At the same time, he gyrated his own hips just enough to make her bite back a moan of sudden, raging lust as the clothed ridge of his penis slid against her pubic bone.
“Don’t pretend,” he whispered. “I can smell your arousal at twenty paces. Whore or virgin, you’re mine.”
He lowered his head, and though she strained away from him, he buried his face in her neck. She grasped his broad shoulders through the dusty velvet cloak and tried in vain to push him off. His lips glided over her skin, finding the sensitive spot of her previous neck wound, which no longer hurt but tingled in treacherous welcome, even when his teeth grazed against it.
“It’s sweet to satisfy both lusts together. . . .” The words vibrated through her neck, shooting straight to her core. “For each of us.” He sucked the skin of her throat into his mouth, and she couldn’t keep still, instead jerking her head back. One of his hands tangled in her hair, holding her head. He bent her backward so that their lower bodies pressed closer together. His knee nudged her legs apart, and the column of his erection found the hot tenderness between.
Clutching his shoulders, she let out a moan that was half sob. His teeth teased her neck; his tongue flickered out in short, sensual licks. His whole mouth seemed to move on her skin, seducing her not just to compliance but to blind, desperate need. She wanted to feel his teeth bite into her flesh, to know again the strange icy pleasure as he drew her blood into his mouth, into his own body. And if he was inside her at the same time, giving her sweet, urgent sex . . .
How can I even think I want that? It’s him, some dark, perverse magic. . . .
But would it really be so very bad to give in? To know this wicked thrill just once?
His hand roved over the curve of her bottom, drawing her harder into him, and it felt so good, so amazing. . . .
I shouldn’t feel like this. I’m not this person!
“No,” she gasped out.
Her fingers were gripping his shoulders so tightly that they hurt. She forced them to loosen. His lips stilled on her neck, then released her skin with one last teasing lick.
“No?” He lifted his head, regarding her with open mockery. “You like to deny yourself. Perhaps you’re right. The pleasure is often heightened by postponement.”
“You’re full of shit,” she said shakily. She didn’t mean to say it; the words just came out. His eyes widened, giving her at least the satisfaction of having taken him by surprise. He stared at her for several seconds, while she wondered in desperation if that was anger, incomprehension, or simple lust boiling in his dark, menacing eyes.
None of those, it seemed.
The “vampire” threw back his head and laughed.
At the same time, he released her, and she backed away from him, listening to her own uneven breath rasping in her throat.
“Oh, decidedly, we will meet again,” he promised. His eyes gleamed as he regarded her retreating person.
“No, we bloody won’t.”
“Have faith, my little thistle.”
Stunned, she finally comprehended that he was letting her go. She turned, stumbling, then almost tripped over her bag before she grabbed it up and ran on shaky legs to the boulder. It was clumsy, but at least the fear lent her strength, for she took only one jump to grasp at the ground above and scrabble, climb, and haul herself through the gap into the blessed fresh air above.
Though there was no light out here, the velvet sky was clear, shining such welcome, beautiful starlight down upo
n her that she wanted to weep. Instead, she staggered to her feet and cast around for her car.
He’d said he wouldn’t follow, but it seemed she couldn’t stop running. She needed only seconds to reach the car, unlock it, and throw herself and her bag inside. A few more seconds saw the key thrust into the ignition, and then she was moving, driving hell-for-leather for the road, for Bistriƫa, and for her hotel and blessed sanity.
But she was going too fast on the narrow, winding hill. When the figure loomed out of the darkness in front of her, she knew, even as she slammed on the brakes, that she couldn’t avoid him. In the screech of tires, she had one glimpse, appallingly close up, of Dmitriu’s dark, distinctive face, and then it vanished.
Before the car finished its final jolt, she threw herself out into the road. She ran all around the car, looked underneath it, and even searched the ditch at the side of the road on her hands and knees. But there was no sign of Dmitriu or anyone else.
She sat back on her heels, dragging one trembling hand through her hair. “I’m going mad,” she whispered. “I’m truly going insane.”
And then, since she could do nothing else, she stood up, climbed back into the car, and drove on with a last look around her. But this time, heeding whatever warning her disturbed brain had been trying to give her, she took it slowly and carefully.
She’d gotten in. That much was clear from the gaping hole in the ground, and the wild, scrambled tracks surrounding it. What else she had done wasn’t so obvious. After all, her white, drawn face as he’d glimpsed it through the car windshield might have mirrored no more than shock at almost running him over. And she lived.
Nevertheless, cautious by nature, Dmitriu stood well back from the entrance to the crypt and reached out with all his senses.
Vampire. There was certainly a vampire close by. He could hear the slow beating of the creature’s heart and smell the recycled blood that powered his existence, but he couldn’t identify him. He could be a strong vampire, masking his signature, or he could just be a weak fledgling. Either way, the creature was close. Below in the crypt, perhaps, or . . .
His spine prickled, and Dmitriu spun around, fists raised to defend himself.
The vampire sat on a boulder that had once formed part of the castle. His cloak stretched out behind him, barely stirring in the cool breeze of the night. Across his knees lay a broken sword, the top third of the blade apparently snapped off. His strong, handsome face was in profile, and he seemed to be gazing upward at the stars, but Dmitriu didn’t let that fool him. The vampire knew exactly where he was and what stance he had taken.
Dmitriu let his hands fall to his sides. “Saloman.”
The vampire smiled, almost as if the last three hundred years had never been. He rose to his feet in one quick, fluid movement, letting the broken sword fall to the ground, and Dmitriu saw that he wasn’t masking. He was weak. It was mere willpower that gave him strength enough to move, to walk toward him.
Emotion threatened to choke him. It seemed after all that he, Dmitriu, was the weak one, for it was he who stumbled in, closing the distance between them.
“Dmitriu.” Saloman embraced him, and he fell to his knees, taking the cold white hand in his and pressing it to his lips. “You sent her.”
Dmitriu nodded. A drop of blood had fallen from his eye onto Saloman’s hand; embarrassed, he wiped both on his shirt before rising.
Saloman said, “How did you know?”
“I could smell her. She reeks of Tsigana. You let her go.”
“For now. There’s more to be had here than an instant of gratification.” Saloman caught and held his gaze, and with massive relief, he realized at last that he was safe. Saloman had lost neither his memory nor his sanity in the frozen centuries. It didn’t matter. Dmitriu would have done this, whatever the consequences. “I am grateful.”
Dmitriu swallowed. “There’s no need of thanks. I only wish I could have done it sooner.”
“You didn’t forget.”
“I couldn’t.” A thousand questions choked him about how it had been for him and how much he remembered; yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He didn’t want to know. Distracting himself, he bent and picked up the fallen sword. It was surprisingly light, and the hilt wasn’t Saloman’s. In fact, it wasn’t even a sword. Silver paint peeled and crumbled over a blade made of red-stained wood.
“So that’s how they did it,” he exclaimed. A stake disguised as a weapon that only threatened humans. “A contemptible ruse!”
“Several ruses,” Saloman said without apparent interest. He’d had three hundred years to digest it, but Dmitriu wasn’t fooled. He hadn’t forgiven or forgotten.
Dmitriu lifted his gaze. “What will you do now?”
Saloman smiled. He stretched out his arms and turned as if embracing the whole world from this hilltop. “Live,” he said. “Feed. Fuck. Frolic.” He came to a halt and stared into Dmitriu’s eyes. “And take back what is mine.”
Dmitriu smiled. For the first time in decades it felt good to be undead. “No ‘f,’ ” he pointed out.
Saloman’s lips quirked. “I’ll think of one.”
Dmitriu’s heart pumped. He tipped his head to one side. “I can help with the feed. My blood is stronger than most these days.”
“It should be,” said Saloman, reaching for him. “It’s mine.”
Dmitriu’s head jerked back as the other’s fangs pierced his skin. He shuddered at the strength of Saloman’s desperate pull, losing himself in the exquisite pleasure, not unmingled with fear. “Just don’t bloody kill me.”
Saloman lifted his head, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “No guarantees,” he whispered, and plunged once again into Dmitriu’s jugular, bending him back like a twig with the force of his hunger.
Chapter Three
Elizabeth woke with a thud.
“Domnişoară?” Someone was rapping on her door. “Miss Silk?”
Elizabeth dragged her hand across her face and through her hair. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. “Hello?” she croaked.
“Can we come in?” asked a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like the chambermaid. Perhaps this was a different girl.
Elizabeth glanced at her travel clock—nine o’clock. She was normally up, breakfasted, and out researching by this time. But then, she hadn’t gotten back until midnight.
“Domnişoară! ”
“Coming,” Elizabeth mumbled, sitting up and staggering out of bed in one clumsy movement. She grabbed some clean clothes from her open suitcase on her way to the door. Unlocking it, she opened the door a crack before heading back toward the bathroom. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.” That probably didn’t make much sense in Romanian, judging by the girl’s lack of response.
“Miss Silk? We’re not hotel staff.”
Elizabeth turned in surprise. Through her half-open bedroom door she could see one woman and two men, young and casually dressed, though not as casually as she was in the thin and ancient T-shirt she wore for sleeping. Clutching her clothes in front of her like a shield, she walked toward her visitors once more.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, puzzled.
“We need to talk to you,” said one of the men. He was tall, fair, good-looking in a robust, square sort of a way. He was perhaps her own age, just shy of thirty. “About last night.”
Her heart seemed to plunge to her toes. “Last night? Oh shit. Dmitriu?” They were the police. She really had run Dmitriu over and just hadn’t seen the body.
“Dmitriu?” The three exchanged baffled glances, leaving Elizabeth to sway with relief.
“Sorry,” she said. “It was a bad night. Er—who are you?”
“My name is Konrad,” the fair man said. “This is Mihaela, and István. May we come in?”
“I’m not dressed.”
“We’ll wait outside,” the girl, Mihaela, said.
Elizabeth, still half asleep and dizzy with relief at not hav
ing killed Dmitriu, shut the door on them and went into the bathroom for a quick shower.
As the cool water hit her, so did understanding.
By the time she’d pulled on her cotton skirt and top and was dragging the comb through her wet hair, she was sure she knew who her unexpected visitors were and why they were here.
It had taken her most of the drive back to Bistriƫa before she’d realized the Saloman thing had been a trick. But she’d gotten there in the end, with a weird mixture of relief, guilty shame, and cringing humiliation for having fallen for it and been so damned scared, not to mention turned on. Who’d have thought staid, frigid Elizabeth Silk would have been so aroused by the idea of the undead she’d been studying so clinically for two years? Even now, the memory made her squirm. Thank God no one at St. Andrews would ever know.
But these people, her morning visitors, must have had something to do with last night. They must have been part of the trick. She wasn’t quite sure what they’d done or how, but she knew it had gone too far. Probably they knew it too, which is why they were here.
She should have examined them with more care. One of them could be “Saloman.” Involuntarily, she touched her throat, where she’d imagined the vampire bit her. A spooky atmosphere was a wonderful thing. She’d been so sure he’d pierced her skin, drunk her blood, when all he’d done was gum her a little. There was no wound, no pain, just a residual sensitivity. Even she had suffered more bruising before from a love bite. The dried blood that had spattered her neck and her top clearly hadn’t come from there at all but from the annoying thorn wound in her palm, now healing at last—unless it was fake blood from the vampire trickery.
Oh well, she’d made a complete arse of herself and would have to live with it. Her one hope of retaining a smidgen of self-respect now was to accept their apology with dignity and good humor.
She threw down the comb and gazed doubtfully at her reflection in the mirror. She supposed she didn’t look much like a serious academic. Like most of her clothes—old, and picked up from charity shops in Scotland—this Gypsy print skirt and loose cotton top, together with her long, damp, unstyled hair, made her appear younger than her true twenty-nine years. She had little gravitas and nothing, she suspected, in the way of presence. But this was all there had ever been, and it would have to do.
Blood on Silk Page 3
